


Catharsis

by puellamagi



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Grief, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-11
Updated: 2016-10-11
Packaged: 2018-08-21 21:02:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8260418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/puellamagi/pseuds/puellamagi
Summary: John doesn’t know a lot about music, but Sherlock must be one of the finest violinists alive. Not that John really pays that much attention to violinists, living or otherwise.





	

John closes his eyes and sinks into the hot bathwater. 

It’s his first night back in Baker Street, and one of the things he had missed the most about living with Sherlock was the bathtub. It was easily large enough for John to stretch out in, for one thing. Despite his admittedly short stature, John never quite had enough space to be comfortable having a long bath in the flat he shared with Mary.

John doesn’t want to dwell on that. All he wants to think about is how amazing this bathtub is. Even Sherlock would be able to stretch out comfortably in it. John does not contemplate Sherlock’s long, lithe body sinking beneath bubbles that would surely be more luxurious than the cheap stuff John grabbed at Tesco. 

John doesn’t really want to think, to be perfectly honest. So he keeps his eyes closes, concentrating on the way the hot water seems to draw all the stress out of his muscles. He slowly cleans his body, washing the dried blood from his hair carefully. 

John hears the faint sound of a violin being tuned.

Sherlock’s impromptu violin recitals happen to be John’s second favourite thing about the flat. Sometimes the music is harsh and abrasive, but it’s usually beautiful. The music seems to vary depending on Sherlock’s whims. Sometimes John hears a Viennese waltz. Sometimes he hears mournful classical music, or a jaunty Balkan fiddle tune. Sometimes Sherlock even plays a pop song. 

Tonight it’s something familiar. 

Sherlock’s wedding gift – the waltz he composed for John and Mary.

It’s beautiful. There’s no doubt about that. John doesn’t know a lot about music, but Sherlock must be one of the finest violinists alive. Not that John really pays that much attention to violinists, living or otherwise. But John knows that Sherlock does not approach any of his interests casually. He gives everything his all.

It’s the first bit of music John has heard since everything fell apart.

John has mixed feelings about Mary too, but she would have been the mother of his child, she was his wife, so it’s all so bloody complicated. There’s a part of John that loves her, and there’s a part that despises her. John isn’t sure which will win out. 

Before John can stop himself, he is crying. In the bathtub, the water is cooling. The lights are dim and it’s the first time he’s been by himself in ages. It’s really the perfect time to cry, if there ever were such a thing.

John weeps. He weeps for his marriage, he weeps for his child that never way, he weeps for relationships built on the shakiest of foundations that were bound to fail eventually. That is not all that John weeps for, however. John cries and sobs the loudest for missed opportunities, for the hurt that he has inflicted and has had inflicted on him. John wonders if his friendship with Sherlock is irreversibly damaged.

It's cathartic.

After John has cried all that he can, after his skin has wrinkled from soaking too long, after the water has gone cold he drains the water from the tub. He dries his body carefully, combs his hair and brushes his teeth. John shaves carefully, so that his haggard face is at last smooth to the touch. 

Before John dresses, the door to the bathroom opens a crack.

“John,” Sherlock says. He says John’s name tentatively, in the tone of voice that only John and most likely Mycroft can decipher as the consulting detective out of his depth.

John takes pity. He opens the door, not awkwardly, as his waist is wrapped in a towel, and it’s not like Sherlock doesn’t intimately know every vulnerability in John’s body. 

“Sherlock,” John replies.

John can feel Sherlock’s eyes scanning his body. Likely cataloguing all the new scars and injuries, he supposes. 

Sherlock’s face is a rather beguiling shade of pink. John wonders what it’d be like to cross the space between their bodies, to kiss Sherlock, to feel the texture of his skin. It’s not the right time though. John isn’t sure what the right time will feel like, but he’s too raw, too exposed right now to do anything. If he kisses Sherlock now, he’ll make a mess of it.

“I um,” Sherlock mumbles, “I brought you your dressing gown. There’s also a bottle of that red wine you like, if you want.”

John closes the gap, but only a little. He places his right hand on Sherlock’s left shoulder.

“Thank you,” he says. 

Sherlock avoids eye contact. He leaves John to dress.

Later, John and Sherlock sit on the sofa, the television blaring some terrible show that neither is watching. They talk about everything that isn’t of importance, and John laughs more than he has in a long time. Sherlock says something mean-spirited about an actor in a television advert, and his eyes crinkle in a way that makes John believe that maybe he has come back to where he’s supposed to be. Nothing has gone the way John has planned, but maybe that’s okay. 

John Watson is home, and that’s all that matters right now.


End file.
